


Family Ties

by LLCoyote



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Even though i fucking hate the comics, F/M, Kidnapping, Non-graphic animal violence/abuse, Obsessive Behavior, but it's possible, honestly I doubt real non-con, set after the comics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LLCoyote/pseuds/LLCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, like heavy ropes, tied me to you.<br/>But my heart was hard as steel, lost in a sea of memories.</p><p>My love bound you like shackles.<br/>As I sunk I looked up,<br/>And watched you go under.<br/>But there was no key to my heart,<br/>No escape from my grasp.</p><p>I stood on the ocean floor,<br/>And watched you drown.</p><p>----Monroe upholds his promise to Connor, he believes it's all that's left to remember him by, but when a figure from Connor's past shows up, he finds himself unable to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Summary is probably going to change. I threw that one together rather quickly. I can't promise this story won't be riddled with triggers. It's based off a dark!fic I wrote quite a while back that was poorly written and largely wrapped up in some of my own issues (there'd been a death in the family). I think the premise was good though and who doesn't love some good ol' fucked-uped-ness. I can tell you there will be mentions of drug addiction, domestic abuse, possible Stockholm, and dubious consent when it comes to sex.

If there was one damn good thing about Randal and his crazed suicide mission, it was that, in the long run, it saved him just as much grief as it caused. Politically speaking. No pain would ever amount to that he felt since he lost Connor. No victory could comfort him, no land could fill the hole that had been ripped into him when the nanites all died and his son was left lifeless on the pavement.

But he'd gotten his republic back.

All he'd had left after burying Connor, was a handful of promises that he'd never fulfilled. At first it had made him despondent; a piteous creature that was practically mute and spent its days drowning its sorrows in whiskey. But just as the alcohol burned, so did his spirit, and a fierce determination over came him only months after Connor's loss. He refused to look back on his life and see nothing but failure. Alive or dead, he would see his promises to his son kept.

Thanks to Randal Flynn, the task had been fairly simple. He'd rallied what was left of Duncan's tribe. It was only a handful of men, but it was a handful of men that valued loyalty, and from them he was certain they could easily be made into a trustworthy group of commanding officers. With the remnants of the war clan behind him, he approached Texas, and Blanchard himself for help. Negotiations had taken months, but an agreement was made and they'd sent a well stocked army of men with him to the former Monroe Republic.

It was almost too easy to round up what was left of his armies and demolish the budding leaderships that had tried to take his place. People were grateful for the protection, for any reprieve from the pandemonium.

Miles didn't show his face until he set his focus on Georgia's land once more. He'd shown up in the middle of the camp with Charlie in tow. He looked better than he should have. Tired as hell, sure, but he looked happy. Charlotte, of course, hadn't changed. As much as he hated them for being so "fine" and moving on, he couldn't bring himself to have them killed. Much like with Texas, they struck an accord. They would run things together, the three of them, just in a much more controlled setting. Charlotte would take second in command of the army once the Georgia Federation was theirs, Miles would govern the people from Boston, and he'd set up a base in the South, as president and general once more. They'd all agree on a set of laws and make sure they were upheld "fairly" (in Charlie's words).

The south didn't put up much of a fight. They'd managed to keep some semblance of their previous government in tact, and the ruling parties surrendered within a year. Two years later, and five years after Connor's passing, their new country was fully formed and functioning... and he surprisingly had no desire to expand it. Things were running smoothly for the first time in years and he had no intention of spoiling that. He was tired. More than anything else, Sebastian Monroe was tired.

He settled into a place in a little town called Corolla North Carolina. The state had been practically over run by wildlife since The Blackout and once more when the bombs dropped. Now it'd been mowed over and remade into a military base, where he made a home and office in a large, quiet place that had been called the Whalehead club before The Blackout. Aside form the necessary officers and guards, he was alone on the grounds and unchallenged by any force. This time there were no rebels, no outbreaks to squash, only long, quiet nights where loneliness threatened to consume him.

In the mornings he ate on the expansive porch and started out across the yard where a stone monument had been raised in memory of Connor. It was a daily reminder of all he'd lost. They'd never been as close as he'd wanted. They'd never had the chance. He'd have never have left the kid if he'd have thought Neville would... It didn't really matter any more.

It was only memories that kept him alive now. Memories that haunted him like ghosts, leaving him half mad and consumed with torment, but they reminded him of his promise. He would rule this Republic until his dying breath. For Connor, and no one else. 


	2. Tense Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again people. I write at the speed of snail. This may very well be the last chapter in Bass' point of view until, well, the last chapter. It's either that, or I will alternate between his point of view and Beck's chapter by chapter. If you prefer it one way or the other, tell me in a review. If not, I'll just do it my way. Hell, I may do it my way anyway but the input is always nice.
> 
> Also, as people want warning in stories, I'm going to tell you this won't end pretty. Bass is pretty far off the deep end, and while he can hold it together for a while, he will get substantially worse. I can promise you there will be dub con as well as animal death. The main character will be held against her will and there is the possibility of domestic abuse. As I'm not entirely sure all that will apply, I'm not tagging them yet. But you have been warned. My guess it by chapter three it's going to nose dive into the dark side.

He could always tell when something was going on there. Independence Hall had been in the center of a city, people were everywhere he looked. Now, the main military bases were a mile away at least and all there was to make noise was a small stable of about eight horses, and the thirty or so men that guarded the place. Only six guards were allowed in the house, and when they started moving around and mumbling, he knew something was up. Currently, they were all in an uproar about something. The two men outside his door were whispering something to a man that had just come down the hall with someone. Maybe a prisoner? He couldn't be sure, they were being too quiet, even for him.

Since the Monroe Republic had risen again and cemented itself on the eastern boarder, he hadn't had any assassination attempts and, as far as he knew, no problem with rebels. Not that he would know unless it was a big problem. That would fall under Charlotte's division now and while he had no desire to attend her funeral, he was glad to have that burden off his shoulders. She was young and tenacious, she'd fare just fine against any adversity sent her way.

Thus far the locals of the area (which were few and far in between) seemed happy the militia had moved in. The militia protected them from raiding camps and helped establish real towns with real laws. They'd had a mass exodus from South Carolina and even the rural areas within the state, with more than five hundred people flocking to the newly formed cities in only a couple of months. They needed the protection from drug lords and thieves and the disturbing number of exotic animals that roamed free. He couldn't see any reason for any of them to try and eliminate him, and anything else was too menial a crime to bring someone face to face with him.

Monroe didn't move. He waited, sitting back in his chair and pretending to stare at some papers, but the tension was rising. The men outside were arguing about something. There was a female voice he didn't recognize that spoke up. Maybe she should just go, she suggested. He heard a clear "no" from one of the men, but couldn't place who it was. This guessing game was quickly growing tedious. Finally, just as he was about to go see what the hell was going on himself, a knock at the door broke the silence. Monroe bade them to enter.

"Sir. A word." The guard was Harold, a person he didn't particularly like but was handy with a gun.

He raised his eyes up from his papers and stared cordially at the man. "Of course."

Harold one of his largest guards. A sinewy, green eyed fellow with thick red hair and eyebrows that were the size of small squirrels. When they'd met he'd had a beard so large it'd covered most everything but his forehead and his rosy lips. 

"There's a woman here to see you." His voice was tight and higher than usual, as if he were nervous about something. Bass did little more than raise his brows at that, and Harold squirmed like a school boy. "She... she uh, well the thing is, Sir, that she says--she knew your son?"

He was right to squirm. Suddenly the general looked much less polite. His eyes were akin to something like a hawk; hungry, daring, almost inhumanly intense. Monroe stood from his desk, making the guard stand a little straighter.

"That is a very serious claim, soldier." Bass did his best to keep his voice controlled and smooth. The blood was rushing in his ears and his heart was pounding so loudly he had to remind himself not to shout.

The man nodded a little too vigorously, "Yes sir but she--she says she has proof."

Bass was gritting his teeth. Was it from anger or anxiety--or maybe even excitement? He couldn't be sure, all he knew was that the emotions were sudden and almost too much for him to handle. He summoned every bit of his control, convinced himself this was most likely a liar, looking to extort him, and told the guard to send her in. Harold nodded his head so low it could have passed for a bow. Bass took a deep breath and made sure to turn his back to the door before it reopened. It was all about control. Of her, of himself, of the entire situation in his house. She was in his home now and on his time. He would face her when he was ready.

She was quiet when she entered. The guard practically dragged her through the door and shut it behind her. She didn't venture any further into the room.

"Before you start... I'm going to give you a chance to back out of this ridiculous scam." There was venom in his tone but he was quiet and contained. He turned slowly to look at her. Sure enough, she was only inches from the door. In her hands was a large, heavy knapsack that had seen better days. It was stuffed to the point where it looked like it would burst and her knuckles were white from gripping it so tightly.

"I'm sorry?" She looked confused and even a little frightened. He neither advanced nor retreated. Panicking her wouldn't get him answers and neither would making her too comfortable.

She was rather pretty, and also rather small. Couldn't have been over 5"3' Her blonde hair was thick and wavy and had been messily wrangled into a pony tail behind her head. It frayed and puffed stubbornly out of the ribbon that bound it, letting little fly away strands of hair stick to her neck. She had a round face and her eyes were a bright blue. Nothing about her looked threatening. She was dirty and a clearly underweight but not bone thin yet. She would be soon, though, without some proper meals. And her clothes were worn and had holes in quite a few places. She looked like she'd been on a long, tiresome journey and his resolve weathered ever so slightly. She was already weak, it would not take the full force of his anger to break her.

"Sit." He directed, crossing his arms and leaning against his desk. He nodded his head towards and armchair not far away. Surprisingly she did not struggle with the weight of the bag she was hauling. "So... you know my son."

"Knew." She corrected quietly, a slight wince on her face. It caused a small silence between them and he saw her lips purse as she looked down at her bag. Her dirty hands fingered the strap almost mournfully.

"Knew." He corrected, it brought her back to him and she looked up into his eyes for the first time. She couldn't hold it for more than a second. Just as quickly she looked at her bag once more and began to fumble with the buckles. Bass cleared his throat. "Right... he never told me about any past lovers."

"We weren't lovers." The correction was quick; an automated response. The kind someone picks up after a long time of repeating the same thing over and over. After a moment her tone softened a bit, "And Connor didn't like to talk about much. Especially me."

"Surely you can see how that sounds too convenient." He challenged, feeling his frustration rise. He wasn't used to being corrected, and no one dared to say anything about Connor at all, better yet that they knew something about him that Bass himself did not. She had a lot of gall to walk into his house and make such insinuations. Monroe took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, but it didn't calm him. "If you two were so close, where were you the whole time? While we got him out of that _psycho's_ place in Mexico? While we fought the patriots? While he was _dying_?"

"Like you know _anything_." She bit back. Like a tiny terrier bristling its wiry fur and baring stubby teeth, she glowered up at him with some newly found confidence. The animosity surprised him, but behind her spark of indignant, she'd looked deeply hurt as he was speaking. "Where were you when he was a kid and didn't have a father? When some random guy just shows up and says he's gonna get him out of town? When he had to leave his mother? When his aunt and uncle died? Because I was there. I was there his _whole life_. He was my _best_ friend. My only friend." Her tirade started off quick and snappy, like the crack of a whip, but by the end she'd calmed down and apparently come to her senses. When she spoke again, it was with a little more caution. "He was the only person I cared about...

She shook her head and wiped some stray hair from her face, "Look I didn't come here to argue with you. I didn't come to make you mad or ask you for something. I only came to give you these."

She reached into her bag and snagged a note book, tossing it his way. Bass flipped through the pages stiffly, skimming the words and shaking his head. "What the hell is this?"

"That's him." She motioned towards the book with her hand. "When Connor was a kid, he had some major anger issues, Emma made him go see some kind of doctor. After that he wrote down fucking everything. Only got worse over the years. I think it helped him think. Because at first he liked to write stories, but then later it was all real. He wrote it down because that way he could own it--control it-- I guess. Like I said, he didn't like to explain himself. After he left Nunez's place a, uhm, a friend, brought them to some other friends of mine and they brought them to me."

"Why give them to me?" He took a step towards her and watched her purse her lips, leaning back into her chair a little more. He hadn't even been trying to make her uncomfortable, but the look on her face said he clearly had.

"I can't read much. Learned a little before The Blackout, but never got far. Something wrong in my brain that jumbles the letters up, but I don't remember the name. After the lights went out--what was the point of even trying anymore?" She shrugged slightly, but it was tense. "And I travel a lot. I didn't want them to get left behind." There was that look again, and clear regret in her voice as she spoke.

Bass looked back down at the book in his hands and fingered through the pages much more reverently. She'd taken a risk coming here and didn't ask for anything in return. It was some odd way of paying her respects from the looks of it, and he--surprisingly--believed her.

"I should really go. I mean, I left my dogs outside and you're busy with--president things. You want them, right? I'll just..." She let the sentence hang and set the bag down as she stood and began to inch towards the door. The way she looked at him was like he was a hungry tiger who would pounce if she moved the wrong way. She got to the door before he managed to find the words.

"Wait!" The demand came out harsher than he meant it to, and he could almost see her flinch. Her hand tightened on the doorknob but she didn't move. He crossed the room in a handful of large steps, placing his hand on her arm. Aside from Charlotte and Miles, this was the only person who he'd met that knew Connor. Could he just let her leave without knowing more? Bass waited until he heard her sigh and took it as a sign that she'd relaxed a little. She met his eyes, clearly questioning his motives. Why was she so damn jumpy?

"Why don't you stay and have dinner?" The way he looked her up and down was far from sexual, but he could tell it made her self conscious. She heard the unspoken words. She could use the food.

"I--can't. Like I said my dogs and they aren't friendly, and Birdie ran off. I should really get back on the road. It looks like rain later anyway." She wasn't even making any sense. Bass almost laughed. Was he sixteen being let down easy by the prom queen? Because the excuses were straight out of an old high school sitcom, he was sure. But this was a grown woman. Mid-to-late twenties and definitely too old for the "I have to wash my hair" or "my grandmother is sick" sort of excuses.

"How are you going to get a bird back?" He sounded mildly amused, trying to make her more comfortable. He needed to convince her to stay, just to talk. He needed to know what she knew. No one else had grieved over Connor. Not even Charlie and she'd fucked him for months.

"Huh?--Oh. No! No Birdie. Birdie is my horse... it's a long story."

"You could tell me at dinner? My men can find your horse. And your dogs can stay on the porch. It'd only be a few hours." He tried to charm her with a smile, but her expression was still deeply conflicted.

"They won't hurt her?"

"You have my word." He nodded, meaning that. He'd never seen any reason for people to be cruel to animals. They weren't like humans, they didn't deliberately do terrible things or stab him in the back. Treating them badly didn't get anyone anywhere. Still it didn't convince her, and she was starting to try his nerves. "What if you go and help them? By the time you come back, dinner would be ready."

She didn't like the idea, clearly, but he guessed she realized she was fighting a losing battle. She sighed again and forced a smile. "I guess that's fair... uhm--thanks."

Sebastian nodded curtly and placed his hand on her back as he led her out. He sent her out with a group of seven men, and he warned them not to lose her.


	3. Discomfort Over Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I figured I'd give some of the people not reading my story about Connor an overview of the relationship that had been there, also I wanted to give this kind of a slow build. I've almost got the whole story map completed and will add proper tags/warnings by the next chapter I post.

A loud whistle broke through the hush of the sunset shore. It went high, it went low, and rolled a few times before dying off and then springing to life again. Beck had always made sure it was a particular whistle, so that her animals would come back for her only. Her dogs, Stella and Raks had been the first to find her. Raks had come, but Stella had been circling the group for an hour. There were way too many people on this search party and Beck mirrored Stella's discomfort.

She'd had every intention of slipping away from the one or two guards she thought he might send to assist her, but a group of seven men? She didn't have an ice cube's chance in hell of escaping them, especially when she didn't have her horse. She couldn't just leave Bird behind... but she was getting the distinct impression that her attendance at dinner was mandatory and not at all a request. They weren't here to help her, just to bring her back.

The sun was nearly set by the time the group made it's way across the bridge, Beck and her menagerie of animals in tow. Thunder was already rolling, making her nervous. She hated traveling in the rain and this was the only good shelter for miles. If they wanted to avoid the storm then they'd have to leave now--and that clearly wasn't an option. Beck settled and locked a very unhappy horse into a free stall in the dark barn and advised the men standing guard at the door not to touch the dogs (Stella, especially wasn't friendly and one dinner wasn't worth a good hunting dog). It took every bit of her courage to step into the house.

President Monroe was surrounded by rumors and horror stories. The general consensis was that he had lost what was left of his faculties after losing his son. The man she'd met seemed calm and rational, if not a bit of a tight ass, but not crazy. It should have reassured her... it didn't. Connor had never been crazy either, but that hadn't stopped him from doing things that were down right insane. To her and to others. From what she'd heard Connor got every bit of his temper from his father, and she was in dangerous waters.

Gods why had she even come here? It'd been a stupid idea that had taken up way too much of her time already. It'd just seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn't worth getting arrested or dying over. She shook her head as they led her through the torch lit halls. She was getting ahead of herself. People could be polite without ulterior motives. She'd just eat and--leave. Beck pursed her lips, it was all making her sick.

A set of double doors opened to the main dining hall that was laughably large. The table was clearly an antique from long before The Blackout but was well polished and shined dimly in the flickering light of the torches. It was very pretty, the dark contrast of the wood with the stark white porcelain of the plates and tall, glittering silver pitchers. She didn't pay much attention to the food, though it smelled nice. Picky wasn't something she could ever afford to be.

Monroe was already sitting at the table. He was reading over one of the faded journals she'd given him but immediately stopped and set it aside as she came in the room. He stood up, though she had absolutely no idea why. With a twitch of his finger and a curious expression, he directed her to a seat at his left side, which he pulled out for her in what she assumed was a mannerly gesture. He reached out for her, but shied away a couple of steps.

"Your jacket?" He asked, holding out his hands once more as if that would change her mind. She stayed firmly planted out of his reach until he moved back a step.

"I'm fine. Thanks." She mumbled as she slid into her seat. That didn't seem to sit well with him. She saw his lips tighten in agitation and the way he subtly rolled his shoulders before coming around behind her and pushing in her chair. He sat down himself and began to pile food on his plate.

It was quiet for far too long after that. She'd apparently taken too long for his taste and he began to dole out food onto her own plate. Maybe it should have offended her, but it was one less thing she had to worry about doing wrong. His eyes were practically glued to her, reading every single move. What was he looking for? The heat of his gaze made her want to squirm.

When he finished with the food he turned to a bottle of what she assumed was whiskey, filling his glass with an extremely generous portion and moving to pour hers. She placed her hand over the top to stop him and mustered up a smile. "Thanks, but I don't drink."

"Ever?" She shook her head and he perked up a brow . "Religious?"

"Oh fuck no." She snorted. A genuine laugh escaped her lips before she realized just what she'd said and to whom. Beck sobered instantly, clearing her throat and sitting back in her chair. "I mean, no sir, I don't."

"Call me Sebastian, please." His voice was almost weary, but she couldn't understand why.

She nodded thankfully, "Beck."

He made a soft humming noise and began to eat. "When did the two of you meet?"

"We were kids. Long time before The Blackout. I mean, we'd met each other on and off before we really met each other, ya know?" The way he frowned told her she wasn't making much sense. "We'd met on a couple of visits while mom and I were in town. Emma was a friend of my mom's. When we moved back to Jasper I was kind of the odd ball out, Connor was in my class, but it wasn't until my dad died a year later that we hit it off... we both liked The Fox and the Hound, neither of us had dads. Connor was never big on sympathy, but I figure he pitied me, at least in the beginning. And--that was that. Once we got to know each other we were practically attached at the hip." She went back to quietly eating. He was hard to read, and she couldn't tell how he'd taken her story.

"You said you were there when his aunt and uncle died." The general remarked in a guarded tone. "But he said that he was starving; alone. Why'd you leave?"

"One thing you gotta know about Connor: he always told a story that made him look better. He sure as hell wasn't alone, and that shit bag Nunez grabbed him up so fast he didn't have time to starve." She pointed her fork at Monroe with a suspicious glare, "I'll tell you, if he had the kind of power to make people sick, I'd be convinced he killed them. Nunez wanted him, preyed on him like a lion, because Connor thought that power--control--could keep him from losing anything else. Bastard took advantage of that."

"If you weren't with him, where were you?"

"On a job. I worked for some nuns at a convent down the road a few times a week. I may not be Christian, but the only other job for girls like me... I'm sure you know." She took a long drink of water and watched him nod from the corner of her eye. His expression had darkened at that. Her glass clanged on the table as she set it down. "I came back as soon as I heard. It wasn't even two days later that I got back to town. At first, we didn't talk about the future, not for weeks. We just survived. But I did ask him to come with me. Eventually. Either I was too late or he just didn't want to. He said Nunez had offered him a place to stay, and me too if I'd come."

"And you didn't?" He asked, his mouth partially full.

"That man was bad news. I decided to work full time, but I was in town most of the time. Every few months they'd call me away. Need me to take something to some far reaches of the country. Connor didn't like it. At all."

They ate in silence after that. Now and again Monroe would ask her a menial question. Had she ever been to North Carolina before, did she like it now, how long would she be in the area. Nothing else about Connor, and she was too suspicious to be grateful. The wind was howling like a banshee outside, and dinner kept dragging on and on. By the time they'd both cleared their plates of desert, the storm was raging outside. When he offered her a place to stay for the night, she had no choice but to agree.

Monroe collected the journal of Connor's and told her, despite her protest, that he'd have someone run a bath and get her something to sleep in before taking his bottle of whiskey and bidding her goodnight.

Beck followed thin, mousy old woman down the hall in the opposite direction of the general. The woman didn't speak to her, simply led her through the mansion by the light of a single candle. The fact that a room was already alight with candles and a tub was already filled with warm water didn't sit well with her at all. He'd planned this. He'd stalled and manipulated until she had no choice but to indulge him.

She took a step back and told herself not to panic. There had to be a better explanation. He had no reason to keep her here. She wasn't anything to him.

"Excuse me?" She cleared her throat, and the old woman looked up from the closet. "When did--all of this, get done."

"President Monroe told us to make up a room if the weather started to turn." The woman dismissed her, going back to the wardrobe and pulling out a blue nightgown and laying it off the bed. The old woman waved her hand impatiently. "The ocean is in our backyard, girl. Weather gets dicey a lot. Especially as fall starts. Now step out of those clothes so I can wash them, or they won't be dry by morning."

Beck had never been overly modest, but stripping in front of strangers wasn't something she was entirely comfortable. Still, her clothes hadn't been washed in a while, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd bathed in anything other than a river or a lake. The best thing, she figured, was simply to play along. The old woman was making sense, after all. She'd grown to paranoid over the years. Beck shrugged off her clothes and handed them to the old woman, who left without another word.

As she stepped into the tub she thought of Connor. Monroe had asked all the questions at dinner, but she had quite a few of her own. When had he found Connor? Did he suffer in the end? And how in the absolute hell had Monroe convinced Connor to leave Nunez, when she'd practically begged him? She tried to relax and lay back, but her heart was heavy. Regret and sadness were weighing on her like an elephant on her chest. She washed quickly and got into the bed. If she couldn't relax, maybe she could at least rest. Beck closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

A restless night ended when the first beams of light shot through the window. Beck blinked away the blurriness in her vision and swung her feet off the bed. The storm had passed and from her window she could Birdie pacing fitfully in a pasture, a thick leather halter on her face that Beck knew for certain did not belong to her. Odd. She stood and stretched, looking around the room in the light of day. Someone must have drained the tub in the night and on a chair beside it, a navy blue dress was folded. Her clothes weren't anywhere in sight.

"You're being paranoid again." She mumbled, running a hand through her hair. She would just ask them were her clothes were. Probably still on the line somewhere. Beck reached for the door handle and went to twist it--but it didn't budge. Her heart started to flutter. She twisted it again more forcefully. She pulled the door up and down and pressed it in and everything she could think. It wasn't stuck, it was locked. Immediately she wheeled around and tried the window. What her eyes had missed by the light of candles the night before, she saw clearly now. She pulled at the stubby heads of the nails that stuck out and prevented the window from opening but they didn't budge, and there wasn't a damn thing in the room to pry them out, or even to bust the window with... and what good would it do anyway? The property was practically an island, there were only two ways across the lake in front of her, a guarded bridge and a small strip of land that fenced in by the pasture. She most certainly could not swim around anything, even if they didn't notice.

In vain, she tried the door once more but it still didn't budge. Beck rested her head on the wood and tried to still her racing heart.

"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a preference of whether you'd like the next chapter to be in her point of view or his, tell me in a review. I'm still undecided if I wanna go back and forth between them or begin and end in Bass' pov only.


	4. Dear Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a disgustingly little amount of sleep lately and this is probably absolutely dreadful, but I got the urge to write it and so I wrote it. As we can all see, my tags have changed. Yay. And since I've received no feed back, this is the style I've chosen to go with.

He hadn't been to a dinner that uncomfortable since Texas tried to make nice with California after the Patriots were wiped out. Governor Affleck had always hated him especially, but it wasn't like she was particularly fond Miles either. And General Blanchard was right, the woman had been practically out of her mind since her husband had passed. Monroe wondered just how sane this woman was, Connor's long lost friend that he'd never spoken a word of. She had a particular look in her bright blue eyes. It was wild and wary of him. Not once had she let her guard down and for the most part she'd been nothing more nor less than cordial to him. She'd addressed him as President Monroe, even after he'd given her permission to use his name.

The night that followed their awkward meal had shed an ugly light on her peculiar behavior, though it made no further case in the favor of her sanity. He'd poured over journal after journal of his son's writing, and what he read shocked him.

His anxious hands had dove into the bag and tore out the first book that his fingers touched. It was more like a captain's log than anything else. Events were recorded dutifully, at regular intervals and after them he'd wrote what needed to be done, why, and how he would go about doing it. There was strikingly little emotion and yet, as the general turned each page, he could feel his son's growing anxiety. It was rarely about the things Nunez had him do or concern for his own safety, and most about his young friend.

There was a disturbing resemblance to Miles and himself in the pages. The journal seemed to take place during the midst of their falling out. It didn't tell him why she ran, or why his son wanted to bring her back, but just like he had with Miles, Connor had pursed her across the country. The only difference was, Connor caught her at least twice before the journal ran out. Her presence made the entries change completely. Entries were scattered and fragmented, emotions were scrawled furiously throughout the pages. He was happy, he was worried, he was furious, he was hopelessly depressed. It was a confusing roller coaster that Bass had identified well with, and it'd made him so uncomfortable that he'd cast the journal aside.

Before he cracked open another one, he poured himself a drink and carefully put them in order from the oldest looking journals with the worst handwriting, to the newest with clearly legible scrawl.

Despite all his longings and self loathing for not being there, he'd never been able to truly envision Connor as a young boy. He had barely known him as a man (a realization that had only been crushingly revealed after Connor's passing). But Connor had been a kid, just like everyone else, and a smart one at that. He'd loved his mother. Even when the writing was clearly angry and almost unintelligible, he never once spoke disrespectfully of Emma. He'd been creative; crafting stories that the general imagined he'd told to his mother and his friends. He'd also been remarkably worried and angry. He hated this, he hated that, and at any time at least five of the kids at school were pissing him off. He'd write down the names of the people he didn't like under a column that had been labeled with a self-censored curse word.

But more than anything, the stories were about him and his wily friend, whom he never named. He didn't put his name in it either. It was some attempted as secrecy, Bass guessed. In the wild stories, angry recounts, and worrisome ramblings, he was the Hound and she was the Fox, and it was rare that there was ever one without the other. Fox was, apparently, out of control, and how his son had felt about that varied greatly in what happened on that particular instance. Hound had been the source of reason between the two of them, something he'd never seen Connor as. How many times had be accused Connor of not thinking? Of being too reckless or selfish or cocky? It wasn't the Connor he read about in the early stages of his journals.

Over night, he'd acquired a new level of hatred for Nunez that he'd never even thought was possible. Connor may have been troubled before the drug lord had entered his life, but Nunez had changed him--and perhaps the worst part was he wasn't sure if Connor realized that or not. He never acknowledged his dark metamorphosis, but what he did document thoroughly was his growing paranoia. The general had put the books down many times during the night to walk off the aching sickness that pooled in his stomach.

He'd drawn Connor to him by cutting Nunez out of his life and offering him greater power but he had never asked why control was important to his son in the first place. He hadn't understood just how much loss his son had suffered. If he had, he'd have let the entire damn town, and Miles as well, snort mustard gas until their faces fell off. He'd have never left Connor with Neville.

His son, his own flesh and blood, had been left alone and hopeless, desperate for something better and happy to follow Neville into that hell hole--it made him wonder just what the nanites put in his head. What would Connor have seen as his perfect life... his guess was something with his loving, patient mother, and his wild friend the Fox. Even up to the very last pages of the journals he had kept, he'd worried about the two. Just what had happened to Fox and why she was gone it didn't say, but she'd eventually escaped him for good, and at the time Connor didn't know about Emma's death.

It was just before first light when the general put on new clothes and stalked down the halls. He listened carefully for any signs of movement at the door, and let himself inside when he none came. He soundlessly stripped the chair of her freshly washed but horribly tattered clothes and tucked them under his arm. From the wardrobe he plucked the first, and only garment that might fit her and laid it across the seat where her old clothes had been.

For years he'd toiled to get his republic back. He'd thought that in some way, it was like giving Connor the life he'd promised him, what he'd believed his son had wanted and deserved, but now it felt like an empty gesture. Connor was gone, he was alone, and the only thing he was honoring was the angry shell of a man that had been lost when Bass had met him. What would have Connor really wanted, if he'd have had the chance to ask before he drew his final breath?

The answer was simple, when he thought about it.

"Burn these." He snapped curtly, shoving them into the arms of a young guard. "And call the rest of the staff to my office. We have a new guest staying with us--and I want everyone to be clear on just how to treat her."

Monroe shut the stark white double doors to his study and took a seat. Connor would have wanted then, the same thing his father wanted now. Someone he loved kept close by and safe.


End file.
